How much more dystopic can it get? We were wondering until the nearby forest fires surrounded us with thick smoke that gave us more reasons to stay inside and wear a proper mask if we have to go outside.
"Greetings from the worst air quality in the world," is the way I started an email to a friend who, bombarded by media images of Portland, was wondering how we are managing in this new reality. Many of my friends from Florida to the Yukon have checked in lately. I give them a virtual smile and explain that we are muddling along.
This got me thinking about the extremes in weather and the natural disasters I've been through in the years before the pandemic. Growing up in Southern California there were always forest fires that blocked the sun and sent light ash tumbling down on cars and backyard swimming pools. Every few years we were sent home from school or treated to a day off by driving rainstorms that flooded local streets where flood control basins were inadequate. We never had winter storms or snow days there.
It wasn't until I spent some time in Texas and Louisiana that I experienced the real power of thunderstorms and lightning that rivaled a war zone. One time in New Orleans I saw a power pole struck by lightning and the spark-filled fireworks show that followed. On another occasion, while swimming in the Gulf of Mexico I saw the beginning of a hurricane and heard the warnings to shelter on local radio.
In my time in the Bay Area, thee were a few "Shelter in Place" alerts, but those were from human error with bad air from oil refineries or other industrial pollutants. It wasn't until I moved to the Northwest that some of the Central Oregon thunderstorms rivaled those in the South. One time driving back to Oregon from Montana, in the state of Washington, we received an emergency warning on the car radio. Ahead, we saw an enormous dark cloud and realized the next Tri-state Washington town where we were headed was right in the middle of it. In seconds, the hail pounded and the visibility decreased rapidly so that everyone pulled off to the side of the road. I recall the two barely visible red taillights of the car in front of me that I followed to safety. When the sky cleared a bit, we took the first exit to a motel on higher ground as the little town's streets flooded. When I saw a local sheriff patrolling in a rowboat, I knew we'd better just hunker down until morning when the floodwater abated.
In 2000, going, to a family reunion in Hamilton, Montana, we headed directly into a huge firestorm in the Bitterroot mountains. All my fishing plans evaporated and the only sport I recall participating in was watching helicopters dip and drop water on burning hills.
All those areas subsequently healed but not before a mountain of lost homes, people, wildlife, and plans and hopes. So too will our latest disasters pass. Today, with so many restrictions on movement and options, it's a good day for only one thing. To remember what we've seen before and to realize that the air will clear eventually and we will begin again.
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